These Silent Conversations
by suckeggs
Summary: A series of vignettes featuring Bruce and Shayera.
1. I

Title: _**These Silent Conversations**_  
Author: _suckeggs_  
Rating: _T_  
Spoilers: _Possibly nothing. Possibly everything._  
Summary: _A drabble series featuring Bruce and Shayera._  
Disclaimer: _Own, not I._  
A/N: _These are drabbles. They've no context, no obligations to Timm canon. Make of them as you will and use your imaginations to fill in the rest. _

—

I.

It's Mari who announces that she and John have gotten engaged. In the middle of the mess hall, during its most busy hour, she stands from her chair, John at her side, and with a flare of charisma and a million dollar smile, she spreads the good news. John flashes an embarrassed grin and thanks all who congratulate and tell him he's one hell of a lucky man, but his gaze wanders around the mess, searching for someone who isn't there.

When word reaches Shayera, it doesn't seem to affect her as much as she'd thought. She continues with her duties, chatting with acquaintances, eating, sleeping and doing what she does everyday. Still, when she sees them from time to time together, standing close, from the corner of her eye, her breath quickens just slightly and she can't deny that she feels _something_.

Mari's eager to finalize it, as if she's trying to beat out something that might get in her way. The wedding comes shortly after the announcement of their engagement and all of the Justice League is invited to the reception. Out of graciousness, she argues, Shayera attends, seating herself with the other founders at the head of the gathering.

When the vows are said, the bouquet thrown, and the cake sampled, her visage breaks down and she finds that she can't take it anymore. Excusing herself, she heads toward the ladies' room, slipping past the view of the happy couple and those who surround them. A splash of water jars her face into the reflection of the mirror, and as the mascara runs down from around her eyes, she sees and pities herself more than she ever has before.

Things don't change much after their marriage as John and Mari remain active members of the League. Operations continue as normal until Mari decides it's time to make another big announcement.

Three months before the child is due, Shayera finds herself in the arms of a dark figure, after falling from the sky with a wing half disintegrated. It's just sex, they both say to each other, and when she makes sure that they never use protection, Bruce doesn't complain.

She holds herself steady before greeting them and their newborn girl. The smile she has on her lips is real because the child she sees in front of her is beautiful. She turns to John, who's thrilled to be a new father, and sees some sort of lasting relief in his eyes and her grin becomes bitter. She congratulates him, not for his daughter and never for his marriage, but for fooling fate.

In dreams, she's always flying. She goes nowhere, but it soothes her to be caressed by the lightness of air. Satin sheets are a close match, but the callused grip around her middle drags her down sharply from this hapless flight.

John's right, she thinks. All these choices are hers to make. And like her ex-lover, she won't become another one of Destiny's puppets.


	2. II

II.

She doesn't know why she decided to come here tonight out of all nights. She doesn't know what to expect or what exactly to say, but for some reason, none of this seems to worry her much.

When she finally gathers enough moxie to knock on the door, she's greeted by a familiar face and a more than warm smile. She's always liked that about Alfred, his kindness and understanding, even though she's met him only several times before.

While Alfred fetches the man of the house, she's left alone to wander the never-ending halls, though she knows she really shouldn't. From the foyer to the kitchen, she finds herself slipping into a small study at the end of the hall. The room is quiet, its darkness lit dimly by the stars through the windows, and she makes her way farther in.

Her vision is excellent, even in the dark, and it doesn't take long for her to find what vaguely resembles what she's looking for. As she reaches in, the lights above her flash on, and knowing some brooding figure stands at the doorway, she grins, "I knew you had it, Bruce."

She hadn't expected him to follow along without so much as a fuss, but then again, if she hadn't have had some inkling of his willingness, she never would have come.

Plopping down on his rather comfy sofa, knees drawn tight against her chest and wings wrapped securely around them, he sits down besides her. She turns to look at him with his arms crossed and she can't believe that they're about to watch this movie.

Thirty minutes in, her stomach starts to growl, but she doesn't seem to notice it or Bruce leaving the room. He returns with a tray in his hands, topped with selections not even the most expensive theaters would keep in stock.

Halfway through the film, her side of the tray is empty, and a quick glance over his shoulder says that food coma is setting in. Her eyelids flutter and a quiet yawn escapes her lips, and she mumbles, "This is a long movie."

She manages to keep awake til the end and when the credits begin to scroll, she leans forward to stretch her wings far enough to poke Bruce in the side. Ignoring his glare, she exhales and says amusingly, "Wally's never going to believe this."

Turning his head toward the woman beside him, he can't help but ask, "Believe what?"

Her eyes lock with his and when she smiles, he remains expressionless. "That I got you, the goddamned Batman, to sit down, share some Italian food and watch, in its entirety, _Titanic_." She laughs at his quiet humph and then yawns promptly, stating that it's about time she leave.

As she heads for the door, she's met again by Alfred, who bids her farewell and whom she decides to hug. He gets the impression that it isn't much of a "goodbye" embrace, but more of the "see you soon" variety. And with Bruce seemingly more relaxed than he's been in months, Alfred aptly concludes that he's going to have to stock up on DVDs and pasta.


	3. III

III.

He shuffles the rubble beneath his feet and slowly looks up toward the ceiling. Bits and pieces of debris begin to fall, faster and larger by the minute. There isn't much time left, and with a toss of his cape, he turns heel. He walks passed the wreckage and the sounds of crumbling walls, eying nothing but the path in front of him until he reaches the door. And into the blackness of this particularly black night, he continues to walk, not once faltering when he hears the flaps of steady wings behind him or the deafening roar of an explosion that blows the dust about his boots.

She lands gracefully by his side, following his quick stride with ease and never questioning where he's headed. Looking down at her hands, she secures the strap of her mace to her wrist before looking back toward the man beside her. His expression is unclear and it isn't because she can only see the bottom half of his face. She can't read it through his movements or through his demeanor, because he's hiding it like he has for years.

"You left him there to die," she states bluntly, her voice sharp and localized as they walked through a forest of trees.

"Yes," comes his only response. For him, there is no need to further his answer, nor one to justify his actions.

"Why? This isn't like you." She stops walking, yet when he continues, brushing past her like some obstacle in his way, she reaches out and grabs his arm until he halts and faces her as she speaks. "You don't kill."

He stands his ground, narrowing his eyes into mere white slits across his cowl. If she hadn't been on his side from the start, he would have shattered every bone in her hand which is still coiled tightly around his bicep. "I had no choice."

"There is always a choice," she responds. She can hear him exhale deeply, knowing she's struck a sensitive nerve.

"You of all people should know why I did what I had." He shrugs away from her grasp and from her glare, turning and proceeding to walk.

She watches as he moves further away from her, finding that his silhouette begins to fuse with the darkness around them, and that the trees, which before seemed to wall the length of their path, begin to look more and more disjointed, surreal. "No, I don't know, Bruce. Not anymore."

—

Her back hits the wall, with her wings splayed parallel like crucified arms. He pins her against his chest, hands pressed against the cold paneling on either side of her head, her leg wrapped and rubbing against his calf.

When his mouth finds her clavicle, she brings a leg up to his waist and his strong grip holds it there in place. Rough kisses travel along her jugular, and she gives him access to back of her ear as she tilts her head, waiting, and groping his shoulders.

He lavishes and licks, like some ravenous adolescent, trailing sluggishly to her chin and then harshly, quickly seizing her lips. Her mouth opens for him, as it always has, and he pulls her other thigh toward his waist until she sits against him, straddling him, grinding.

—

As she lifts the sheets, letting the cool air hiss at her skin, she places her feet onto the soft carpet of his bedroom floor, wriggling her toes amongst the many raised strands that seem to welcome her warmth.

He watches her walk to the window, his head propped against his hand, and listens to each of her steps as if they made any noise. When she stops, her body turned to face him, bare and glowing with the aura of clouded moonlight, she holds her wings close to her, her gaze staring out into some assuredly wonderful view, and sighs.

"What do you feel?" She isn't referring to the sex, or even to what happened earlier this night, but in general. "After all this, after all that's happened, what are you feeling?"

She waits for his answer, half expecting to never receive one. But when he finally talks, his tone does nothing but fuel her. "What do you want me to say?"

"Anything," she quickly utters, collecting herself as well as she could. "Just anything." Green eyes flash as they meet with his blue ones, and she continues, "So I know you're not some goddamn, emotionless bastard."

He matches her glare, sitting up as he does so and exposing his scarred torso. His face, suddenly severe like there's no longer a mask, but only the raw feeling that's been veiled beneath it, looks to her, and with a voice clearer than it's ever been before, he speaks.

"Powerless, Shayera. Like every fucking _human_ on this earth."


	4. IV

IV.

Often enough he would see them again, exactly the way they were all those years ago. It was as if their faces and their surreal expressions had burrowed through his eyes and into the confines of his memory, where they would recycle their own likeness over and over again for him.

When they were dead, splayed across the cold ground with thick blood pooling beneath their bodies, he would kneel there beside them. If he had the choice, he would stay here forever, hoping that they would start moving again beneath his hands, breathing, and say that none of this was real. That would make him happy.

The foggy stillness is broken when he hears footsteps coming from behind him. Wiping the tears he didn't know he had, he turns to face the approaching figure. As his vision clears from crying, the woman grows closer and he sees a pair of white wings that make him gasp. His voice weak and crackling, he manages to ask, "Are... are you an angel?"

He sees her fully now and despite the pretty face, her rough demeanor troubles him. He doesn't realize that he's staring, but when a smirk forms across her lips, he blinks into realization. "No. I'm no angel."

Walking closer to him, she watches as he scoots closer to the frozen bodies behind him and he questions, "But what about your wings?"

Sensing his unease, she stops moving. "It's a long story." She pauses, looking at the young boy before her, his clothing damp and his fingers bloodied. "You probably won't want to hear it."

A silence between them grows as she eyes the two bodies behind him. "This is my mom and dad." He catches her gaze and states, "They're dead."

She can see his eyes swelling as he speaks and takes the chance to move closer to him. Crouching beside the boy, she says, "I'm sorry." Placing a hand beneath his chin, she turns his head toward her and wipes away the tears with her thumbs. "What's your name?"

Sniffling, he answers, "Bruce." He rubs his eyes against the sleeve of his coat and with every ounce of dignity he can muster, he straightens his back. "What's yours?"

"Shayera," she says quietly. Noticing him looking behind her, she takes his hand and brings it to one of her wings.

"That's a weird name." He gently strokes the feathers, drawing back quickly when he see a stain of blood where his fingers had touched, and apologizes.

"I'm not from your world," she replies, taking his hand in hers, not caring that the blood begins spread against her skin. "I was born on a planet called Thanagar."

Lifting his gaze from their hands to her eyes, he realizes, "Then you're all alone here. Like me."

He finds it strange when she starts to smile, but the warmth that blankets his hands begins to comfort him as he hears her say, "No, Bruce. I'm not alone, and neither are you."

—

He sits at the breakfast table the morning after the funeral. For a time, he remains motionless, lost in thought and unaware as the minutes go by. Footsteps moving down the hall bring him out of his light reverie, and he stands from his chair as he watches Shayera enter the kitchen.

She gives him a lazy smile as Bruce begins to prepare breakfast. His hands move efficiently like a skilled cook, like how Alfred had taught him as a child, and he pays no mind to the woman staring at him from behind. "Would you like something to eat?"

She can smell the eggs and the brewing hot coffee and says, "Yes, thank you." She moves to stand beside him and despite his calm exterior, she knows that he is grieving. Reaching for his free hand, she tells him, hoping for once he lets go of his stubbornness, "You're not alone, Bruce. You never will be."


	5. V

V.

Half stumbling as she lands on her feet, she makes her way toward the entrance of the cave. It had taken her more than double the time to get there, but with both wings beaten and bloodied, she's surprised she'd made it at all.

She hears her own uneven footsteps echoing off the stone walls before she reaches out an arm to steady herself. When her movements stop and her shallow breathing the only sound that remains, she lets herself slide down against the hard stone that begins tearing at the fabric of her shirt and at the roots of her wings. Her mind slips into abandon, but even now, her eyes swell with tears.

For the time being, sitting on the floor was good enough. The sharp pains had turned into lingering aches, but all the booze in her system was doing a good job of numbing it all until she felt nothing.

She doesn't pass out completely, but her eyes close and her shoulders slump forward from the wall she's leaning against. Besides the heave of her now steady breathing, her body stays still until the pool of blood gathering at the base of her hand begins to nag at her attention.

He finds her only several feet from the cliffside opening to his lair, awake if only barely. She mumbles something incoherent when he crouches down and brushes the hair away from her face. Blood stains his bare hands as he lifts her into his arms and caries her to one of his many tables.

Examining her wounds, a gash near her shoulder blade is the deepest of her cuts and though several of the bones in her hand have shattered, he knows her physiology will accelerate the healing process.

He tears her shirt to access her shoulder, minding her wings as he applies a tourniquet. When he finishes binding her broken hand, his eyes fall on her swollen knuckles and his thumb gently brushes over them. Bloodied and torn, it was as if she had wanted to break it.

His hand is still touching hers when she finally moves to sit up. Her sight whitens at the sudden change in altitude, with the blood rushing to her head, but it doesn't stop her from raising her good arm and pulling him to her.

She tastes like blood and alcohol, bourbon if he might wager a guess. Forceful and hungry, she surprises him with a strength unexpected from someone who's lost as much blood as she has. But he matches her strength, knowing she can handle it.

Biting his lip, she grins at the sample of his blood on her tongue. She ignores his throaty hiss and the pressure of his hand against the side of her waist. When her fingers become entangled in his hair, their bodies press and there is nothing between them.

Her mouth parts to take in some air, but his lips draw her quickly back in. They struggle to overcome one another, but both are experienced and equally matched.

When he tastes a hint of salt, he pulls away to see the tears running from her eyes. She forces him back to whisper against his mouth something he can only assume to be Thanagarian. Though the words are harsh and foreign to his ears, he kisses her.


	6. VI

VI.

She can't see him, not while perched upon a branch in this forest of trees. Even as her pupils dilate, adjusting to the dark, she still can't see him.

Taking to the sky, she hovers low at the height of the tallest trees. Brisk, cool air enters deep with her breathing. Her muscles are tense and her eyes move neurotically about in search of him. She knows he is out there, waiting, or perhaps following her on foot. He is somewhere.

She feels a sharp pain in her left wing as a hook shot from below lodges deep into her feathered folds and pulls her forcefully down. Tearing into the flesh, blood seeping into the clean white of her plume, she flaps desperately to get away. She is dragged into the cold foliage, through pointed twigs, colliding with thick branches until she hits the ground hard. Somehow, she's lost grasp of her mace.

Immediately he is on her, fists approaching her masked face. She is quick, though, rolling to the side and out of his reach temporarily. She forgets that she is still hooked and an abrupt wrench pulls her back to him.

She feels his knee at her stomach, knocking the wind out of her lungs. Barely standing, she blocks several of his blows as they begin to fiercely spar. She remembers many of his techniques, but he apparently has others.

Her punch lands across his face, and he returns the favor with a noticeable crack sounding from her jaw. Her lip is split wide and blood runs into her mouth. She takes another strike to the side of her head, and her hearing begins to ring.

His attacks fast and brutal, she is taken back by his relentlessness. Faltering against the base of a tree, he has her pinned. A swift kick brings her to the ground, and while the grass and leaf litter are soft, her head slams with a thud.

They wrestle on the earth, her clothes becoming muddied and moist from the mixture of blood and dirt. An elbow to his jawline sends blood from his mouth dispersing toward her face, and she spits her own blood collecting in her mouth at him in return.

He is quiet when he fights, but when she hears a low, harsh growl escape his lips, her blood dripping from his face, she tries to scramble to her feet. A gloved hand grabs her wounded wing and a series of bone-crunching sounds are stifled only by her shrill cry as she collapses to the ground once more.

Still in his grasp, her wing twists and bends in the most unnatural ways as she writhes in the dirt. His entire body weight is above her, crushing what energy she has left in her. His hand moves from ravaging her wing to grab at her bloodied face. Palm against her mouth and nose, she suffocates under his hand.

She brings a fist to his head, but he catches it, crushing the bones in her hand as he muffles a wrenching yell from her mouth. A kick to his side knocks him off of her and she claws at the ground to break loose. His clasp had been so tight against her face, he takes with him her mask as she struggles away and escapes.

Emerging from the forest and onto a slender cliff, a gleam of moonlight strikes her swollen peripheral vision, and she blinks away the stinging of blood in her eyes. Her evasion is made short when he runs up from behind her, forcing them both off the edge.

His grappling hook lost in some heap of bloodied leaves and her wings wasted and dysfunctional, they fall in unison toward the sea. She calls to him for the first time, "Bruce!"

She lands against the water with her back, the shock of pain radiating from her wing enough to shake her consciousness. He is above her again, blocking the flickering stream of moonlight through the water. They struggle like they had on land, and air escapes their mouths rapidly, bubbling erratically to the surface. Their movements slow as they sink deeper into unlit levels, the pressure of the water above them suppressing their efforts.

Her eyes seek to find his through the lenses of his cowl, and plead with him. She believes she's made contact when he suddenly ceases his attacks. The grip that had been around her throat releases, and she takes this chance to bring her good hand to his mask, pulling it roughly from his head. Their eyes lock as they sink below the visible spectrum, and the simulation ends.


End file.
